


Mens rea

by konashman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adorable Sam Winchester, Asshole!John, Big Brother Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Gen, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konashman/pseuds/konashman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was sitting at a table in their current shitty motel room, reading about the monster of the week, when his youngest son managed to wriggle his way into his lap, bumping his head on John’s chin and tickling John’s nose with the unruly mop he called hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mens rea

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a tumblr post that said
> 
> "ohh nice drawing son... ill put it right here in the shredder where it'll be nice and safe
> 
> john winchester"
> 
> I hope you like it. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Feel free to leave comments or kudos :)

John was sitting at a table in their current shitty motel room, reading about the monster of the week, when his youngest son managed to wriggle his way into his lap, bumping his head on John’s chin and tickling John’s nose with the unruly mop he called hair.  
“Daddy, lookit, I made a drawing!” he said, eyes wide and gleaming with pride at his accomplishment. John looked at the slightly crumpled paper in the grubby toddler hands and suppressed a sigh.  
“Not right now, Sammy. I have work.” It wasn’t that he wanted to brush his son off. But every moment wasted was another innocent death. Also, it was late and he just wanted to finish his research, grab a cold one, and retire for the night.  
Sam pouted up at him and bounced in his lap in a way he may have found cute if he wasn’t so damn tired.  
“Plleeeeeeeasse?” Sam begged, drawing out the word and pressing the paper to his father’s chest insistently. That time John did sigh as he plucked the paper from the chubby hands, prompting a pleased smile from the kid. The drawing was done in the crude, sloppy way of young children. John wondered briefly where Sam had gotten crayons because he sure as hell hadn’t bought them.  
“It’s our family,” Sam chirped happily. And so it was; the tallest stick figure with a mess of dark hair, stubble, and a frown must have been himself, then Dean with green circles for eyes and a smattering of freckles across his face, and little Sammy in the middle, holding each of their hands. The impala was next to them, only discernibly the impala because what other car would Sam have drawn? And then John noticed, his heart giving a painful wrench in his chest, a fourth stick figure standing on a cloud in the sky, sporting a halo above her blonde hair. His Mary.  
“Dean said Mommy had blonde hair. He also said she was really good. So she’s in heaven,” Sam explained. John stared at his son, at a total loss for words. Give him a vengeful spirit any day, but a young child and he was hopelessly out of his league.  
“Nice drawing, son,” he finally managed. At that Sam’s grin faltered, then was completely wiped away when John tried to hand him back the drawing.  
“You-you’re not gonna keep it?” he asked. John winced at the previously happy tone now small and unsure.  
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Now go find Dean, kiddo,” he said, nudging the boy off of his lap. Sam looked down at his sock-feet scuffing across the floor.  
“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, drawing another wince out of John. He walked back into the bedroom. John set the drawing onto the table and rubbed at his temples. That was not supposed to happen. He glared at the stupid piece of paper that might as well have been a neon sign flashing at him, “you’re a horrible parent!” Before he could think better of it he balled it up angrily and chucked it at the trash bin, missing by a good few inches. Then he froze at the choked off whimper behind him. Fuck. He turned in his chair to see Sam standing in the doorway, hurt etched plain on his tiny features and tears glistening in his eyes. Before John could say anything he scampered into the bedroom. Double fuck. Good going Winchester.  
Not three minutes later his eldest made his way into the room, slamming the door behind him. John was shocked to see barely restrained fury in his 9-year-old’s eyes, not uncharacteristic because he wasn’t used to seeing it but because he had never seen it directed at him.  
“You threw it away?!” was the first thing that exploded quietly from Dean’s mouth. “How could you, Dad? Do you know how excited he was to show that to you?”  
John couldn’t even reply. It was so completely unnatural for Dean to talk back to him, let alone scold him.  
“You couldn’t have just taken the damn thing and pretended to like it, at least?” he demanded.  
“Language, Dean,” John snapped because he knew his son was right but he didn’t want to admit it. Dean just snorted in disgust and stomped over to the trash can, scooping up the crumpled up paper and smoothing it out with care that didn’t match his rage. Without another glance at John he stalked back into the bedroom. John put his head in his hands as he heard the two boys’ muffled voices drifting out from behind the door.  
“I love it, Sammy.”  
“Thanks, Dean.” Sam’s voice was thick with tears but also with unconcealed awe and happiness. “You’re the best.”  
That night John was exiled to the crappy, moth-eaten couch, nursing a beer as his sons giggled and whispered with each other in the bedroom. He wondered when his son had become a better father than him.


End file.
